


Fly off the handle

by GonEwiththeWolveS



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Geralt feels guilty, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Temporary Brain Damage, bandits, no beta we die like witchers, oh look i'm hurting jaskier... again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23524066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GonEwiththeWolveS/pseuds/GonEwiththeWolveS
Summary: In order to save his bard, Geralt is forced to make a decision he might regret.---------------------He throws the witcher a victory smile, but the other man doesn’t return it. Actually, now that Jaskier takes a closer look, Geralt seems frozen in place with something that looks suspiciously like horror spread across his face. Strange.Jaskier frowns in confusion and follows Geralt’s line of sight to his upper stomach.Oh. That’s an arrow in his abdomen.Well, there goes his favorite doublet.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 153
Kudos: 1150





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Gore warning in the end notes.

Jaskier idly fiddles with the lute’s strings, trying out some chords to the new song he’s composing. The lyrics are compliment of the last contract Geralt took, a nest of ghouls in a village down southeast. Stank worse than a vat of cow dung, Jaskier sure wasn’t in a hurry to be in the company of more rotten corpses. Yuck.

It’d take a lot of embellishment to make it an appealing tale, but he’s worked with worse. He’ll have to make do.

They were running a little short on coin, and they both desperately needed a decent bath in a real bathtub, not some ice-cold river he could barely stand in for five minutes before his balls started freezing off. So, Jaskier was doing his best to compose a song worthy of respect that would hopefully afford them a discounted stay in the inn of the next town over.

Not that the oversized oaf would show any appreciation, the savage. He’d stew in his own filth for days if nobody was around to point out to him that normal people should not, in fact, smell like they’d just dig their way out of a graveyard (and no, Jaskier was definitely not overreacting, shut up Geralt).

So maybe he had an appreciation for the finer things in life, pleasantly smelling and savory tasty things. He may be willing to make a few sacrifices in the name of the adventure and comradeship he craved, but let’s not go to extremes.

Getting back to the subject at hand, maybe a b flat? No, no, d flat sounds much better. He stops momentarily, pulling his journal onto his lap so he can jot the note down.

The subject of the song in question is currently off securing their dinner, leaving Jaskier to watch over Roach and the modest clearing they’d chosen to set camp in. The night seems calm, the only sounds hearable in the distance being the steady chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl. 

Jaskier’s sitting with his lute by the firepit Geralt set up and lit before heading off, while the mare contentedly chews on some weeds a few feet away. The small flames flicker and crackle, casting wavering shadows all over the small clearing.

The serenity lulls the bard into a fall sense of security, so he doesn’t notice the encroaching danger until Roach startles, head shooting up and ears pricking in alarm.

“Roach? What is it girl?” Jaskier asks, unease growing in the pit of his stomach as he immediately puts his lute aside and springs to his feet. The mare neighs and kicks at the dirt under her hooves, tossing her head.

He rushes over to her side, grabbing a hold of a rein so she doesn’t get spooked and run off without him. He surveys the clearing, nervousness making him fidget in place as he tries to understand what had startled the horse.

The crunch of a twig being snapped under someone’s boot makes him jolt and turn his head sharply to the bushes at his right. The rustling of leaves catches his attention and he steps back in alarm as figures emerge from the shadows. 

Six men, all very ragged looking and very much armed to the teeth, come forward into the light. Bandits.

They carry swords that look exceptionally sharp, a few even casting a glint in the moonlight that draws Jaskier’s eye. One carries a crossbow which is currently aimed at him, he notes with a pinch of trepidation.

 _Fuck_. Where the hell are gruff ferocious witchers when you need them? Does it really take that long to catch a couple of hares?

“I don’t want any trouble,” Jaskier tries to mollify them, holding up the hand that’s not gripping Roach’s rein in a placating gesture and unconsciously making himself smaller as the men approach him. 

The odds are definitely not in his favor. There are six of them and only one of him, and that’s not even counting the fact that Jaskier is completely unarmed. As much as it pains him to submit so cowardly, his only chance at living to fight another day is to go along with the bandit’s requests and surrender his goods. 

Besides, he’d bet a good coin that as soon as Geralt comes back he’ll be able to track these scoundrels’ arses and give them a good kicking. 

“Coin bag is over there.” He points to where they’d left their gear by the campfire. “Take what you must and leave, please.”

One the men looks in the direction he’s pointing and smiles greedily at the pack of goods sitting in wait by the firepit. They make their way over to the bags, three of them kneeling to search through their stuff as the other half stand guard. The one with the crossbow still has the thing irksomely trained on him.

There goes his plan to buy them a nice stay at next local inn, that is unless the next audience he performs for is so thoroughly enchanted by his sublime singing that they become improbably liberal with their coin. Yeah, right.

One of the three that are standing picks up his lute from the spot where he’d dropped it in his haste to get to Roach and turns it around in his hands, examining the fine carving. Jaskier winces at the thought of losing his beloved, he simply couldn’t bare such a thing. 

“I’d just like to request that you leave the lute, if you would be so kind,” he pipes up, employing his easygoing grin in an attempt to sway the robbers his way. Eh, when all else fails. “Its sentimental value is rightly insurmountable to me, and, to tell the truth, you really wouldn’t fetch much for her, I assure you. It has seen much better days; it’s impossible to tune and the tone is always off,” he lies through his teeth, but this pack of men don’t look like the brightest of individuals. 

His request merely earns a few dry chuckles from the bandits though, who turn to give him some very troubling predatory looks.

“Think ye’re a clever one, do ye?” The one who smells woefully of garlic drawls, breaking into a smirk that reveals a frankly concerning number of teeth missing (and that’s not to mention the rotten ones still in his mouth) as he saunters up to the bard.

Jaskier wrinkles his nose in disgust at the man’s bad breath, it was like sticking his nose in decaying fish. Honestly, that’s just foul.

The man jerks his head in Roach’s direction, “That’s a nice horse ye’ve got there.”

 _Ah shit._ Jaskier’s nervous smile dies on his lips, which seems to satisfy the bandit, whose smirk widens _._ He gulps, trying to think of the best way to dissuade the man. Whatever he does, he cannot let them take Roach. He knows that horse means the world to Geralt, despite the witcher’s protests that he cares for no one and nothing. 

It’s easy to see how deeply and thoroughly Geralt actually _cares_ whenever he coos at his loyal mare, the cold external facade melting away to reveal the good-hearted man that Jaskier’s falling uncontrollably and recklessly in love with. 

“There’s no need for that, really. Take my lute instead, as a gift!” he pleads, taking a step back, which the mare mimics herself, when the man reaches for the reins. “Just- please leave me the horse. She’s not mine, you see, and her owner would be most displeased to arrive only to find her gone. Besides, she’s ornery as a mule this one, she’ll be no good to you.”

Unfortunately, this only seems to amuse the men further, who switch greedy looks amongst themselves.

The disturbingly garlic smelling man makes for Roach’s reins again, but, in a nice turn of events, before he can grab a hold of the bridle, a large figure storms into the clearing making everyone freeze in their tracks.

Jaskier breathes out in relief with the first flash of white hair he spots. _Thank Melitele,_ he was starting to think he was going to have to heroically sacrifice himself in the quest to save Roach from an undoubtedly unsavory life of servitude at the hands of these smelly barbarians.

The witcher locks eyes with him, scowl firmed on his face like somehow Jaskier is to blame for all this, before looking away to evaluate the scene. Honestly, it’s not like it’s his fault that a ragtag of bandits took him for easy pickings. If anything, it’s Geralt’s fault for scoffing and rolling his eyes when Jaskier pestered him to teach him a few witcher moves. ‘I’d knock you out with the first punch’ he’d said, ‘You’d be more trouble than helping hand in a fight’ he’d said.

The bandits have all lost their hungry grins by now, staring in burgeoning apprehensiveness at the irritated witcher in their crosshairs. The man in front of the bard turns to look at him with wide determined eyes and, oh no. Jaskier knows that look.

The man makes a move for him, which proves to be the catalyst for everyone jerking into action. The crossbow guy shoots a bolt at Geralt who promptly dodges it and the rest raise their swords, chaotically screaming instructions and orders at each other.

Jaskier was expecting the garlic-man to lunge for him, so he ducks and knees him in the family jewels with the greatest amount of strength and pettiness he can muster. The bandit doubles over, howling in pain to Jaskier’s great satisfaction. Suddenly, there’s a very large and pissed off witcher by his side and he’s unceremoniously shoved backwards which, rude. He just pulled off a total badass move, he’s earned his honorary witcher stripes or whatever.

“Stay back,” Geralt growls, gutting the man still clutching at his genital area before charging towards the rest of the bandits.

The garlic-man falls in an undignified puddle at Jaskier’s feet, blood and other unpalatable things spreading through the dirt and grass. He sidesteps to avoid getting any on his shoes and diverts his attention back to Geralt and the brawl at hand.

Another two of the men are already sprawled out on the floor, missing three limbs in total between the both of them. One is also conspicuously missing a face. He makes a note to never get between Geralt and his mare, holy shit.

The witcher is still grappling with the other two who were previously rummaging through their stuff, while the bandit with the crossbow stands to the side, frantically trying to load a new bolt. Geralt has his back to the man, and the bandit at issue has an unimpeded view of his target.

Oh no, no, no. That won’t do.

Crossing the distance at a run, Jaskier throws himself at crossbow-guy, catching him off guard, and they crash to the ground together, rolling through the mud. They come to a stop a few feet away, with the bandit on top and Jaskier underneath.

The man’s hands fly to his throat, crushing and cutting off his air supply. Jaskier flails a bit while trying to suck in air, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and rears back to punch the guy in the nose, being rewarded with a satisfying spray of blood right in the face. Not that the blood in his face is satisfying, he isn’t particularly lustful for it, but it’s nice to re-establish that he isn’t completely useless in a fight. 

He does manage to throw the guy off enough that they roll back to where they’d started from, Jaskier ending up on top this time. He feels a small sense of victory but, unfortunately, it doesn’t last long. The scoundrel catches him off guard and headbutts him.

A white burst of pain blooms behind Jaskier’s eyes from the force of the strike, disorienting him as the man swiftly inverts their positions. Does the guy have rocks for brains? Heh, likely.

Suddenly though, the bruising weight vanishes from atop him. He looks up in surprise, being greeted only by the starry night sky. Turning his head to the side in confusion, his eyes widen as they land on the bandit he’d been wrestling with moments before run clean through with a sword, impaling him from side to side. His mouth is open in a silent scream of agony and his eyes are open so wide he can see the whites on all sides. That’s… gruesome.

He looks the other way, predictably finding the culprit in a sans-sword Geralt.

He throws the witcher a victory smile, but the other man doesn’t return it. Actually, now that Jaskier takes a closer look, Geralt seems frozen in place with something that looks suspiciously like horror spread across his face. Strange.

Jaskier frowns in confusion and follows Geralt’s line of sight to his upper stomach.

Oh. That’s an arrow in his abdomen.

Well, there goes his favorite doublet.

* * *

Geralt had set out to catch a few hares, enough to cook a decent dinner for two, but he soon caught scent of bigger game, venison, and changed his plans.

The larger animal would be sure to fill their bellies and grant him a reprieve from Jaskier’s constant complaining about how tasteless meals in the wild were. Geralt usually just ignores him, or pretends to do so (more often), but the bard has been looking a bit tired and on the thinner side. A more composite supper wouldn’t do any harm.

He has been tracking the deer for about a quarter of an hour when the first distant sounds of commotion reach his sensitive hearing. He stills, straining his ears and discerning a few neighs of distress from Roach which immediately raise flags of alarm in his mind.

Shit. He couldn’t even leave that damned bard alone for five seconds before the idiot got into trouble. He growls in frustration and abandons all plans of catching the venison, setting off back to the clearing where he’d left his companion at a run. 

As he approaches, he starts distinguishing other sounds, more people, talking and moving around ahead of him. Which means Jaskier was most likely approached by bandits.

He hopes the bard didn’t get any delusions of grandeur and tried to fight the men or mouth off at them. Although he recognizes that wishing for Jaskier not to mouth off is a lost cause. 

He does his best to ignore the unwarranted growing pool of dread in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the bard being hurt, using it instead to power his legs into taking longer strides.

When he gets close enough to be absolutely sure that no one is injured, due to the lack of the distinct smell of blood in the area, he feels a weight being lifting off his chest, but he doesn’t slow his pace any. He needs to get there before the situation changes.

When he finally breaks through the bushes and rushes onto the clearing, the scene he’s greeted with is thankfully what he’d hoped for. Jaskier stands off to the side with Roach, with only one of the bandits next to him as the other converge around his gear in the firepit. 

Jaskier had apparently played the smart card and offered no resistance, opting to wait for him instead. Thank Melitele for small mercies.

Everyone freezes in their tracks at his appearance, and he can smell the bitter stench of fear rising up in the air as they stare at him. Good. Frightened prey is easier to hunt, more prone to make mistakes. 

He looks back at the man near Jaskier, targeting him as the first one he needs to take down due to his proximity to the bard. He can see the man’s eyes widening in alarm as he understands this too, though, which makes things infinitely more complicated for him.

He tries to make a move for the bandit, but he’s too far away and too late. The man launches himself forward at Jaskier and Geralt is forced to duck the arrow that shoots off in his direction, momentarily diverting his attention away.

A sudden terror grips him as he recovers from the arrow, which only abates when he realizes that he still doesn’t smell blood in the air. He snaps his head back in Jaskier direction to see the bandit doubled over in front of him, clutching at his crotch.

An overwhelming sense of relief and unwarranted pride over the bard that he’d prefer to analyze later (or never) washes over him as he takes in the scene and figures out that Jaskier managed to get the upper hand on the other man.

He launches back into a run and finally crosses the distance between them, being successful in putting himself between the threat and the younger man.

He shoves him backwards, away from the danger and orders him to stay put as he plunges his sword into the soft flesh of the bandit’s belly. He pulls it out at an angle, slashing diagonally and effectively eviscerating the man. 

Before the body has had the time to hit the ground, he’s already charging forward and effortlessly parrying the uncoordinated attacks two of the bandits fling at him. He swipes low and hacks off the leg of one of them, who howls in pain and drops to the ground, clutching at the severed limb.

He can sense the other coming at his back, so he pivots and brings his sword up high, clashing it with the man’s own. The blades slide together, making a shrill metallic sound, and the man pulls back to strike again at his side. 

He brings his own sword sideways and manages to cut off the man’s arm, sword still in hand. More shrieks of pain follow, so Geralt plunges his sword in the man’s face to save his own ears from the unnecessary noise. 

The man who’d lost his leg is apparently not done with the fight or wishing for more suffering, as swipes low from the ground at Geralt’s legs and manages to nick his ankle. 

Geralt curses, stumbling backwards as the man raises the sword again in a painful screech. The witcher growls and swings his blade low as he charges past the man at the other two who stand further away, slicing the man’s arm off at the elbow. 

The other two men seem to have learned from their fallen comrades’ mistakes and come at him together. Geralt is forced to dodge the joined assault, putting himself into the line of fire of the archer. That was going to present a problem sooner rather than later, but he had to deal with these two first or they’d converge on his exposed back. 

He brings his sword up to parry the attack from the one on the right and thrusts his weight forward so that he can halt the second one’s swing with an elbow at the sword handle level. He manages to push that bandit back and is about to slide his sword off the first’s blade and plunge it into his side when sudden movement behind him causes him to falter. 

He turns his head to see that Jaskier, the _absolute blundering idiot,_ has launched himself at the man aiming the crossbow and they both roll through the mud now. 

The bandit takes advantage of the witcher’s current deflected attention and swipes at him. Geralt barely manages to avoid being gutted, bringing his sword down at the last moment to parry and dodging to the side. The blade manages to catch his flank, and he feels the skin smart with the cut. Thankfully it doesn’t feel very deep.

He feels a pressing need to make sure the bard doesn’t get himself killed and uses the urgency to fuel his rage at the bandits. He feels the second bandit coming up behind and uses the opportunity to jump back and shove the man forward, making him stab his friend.

He then finishes the man from the back and they both fall in a pile to the floor, life quickly draining out of them.

Geralt wastes no time in turning around to assess the situation with the bard. The view that greets him instantly pools dread and dismay in his stomach, as the bandit is straddling Jaskier and about to make use of a crossbow bolt to gut the younger man.

Geralt immediately swing his sword back to throw it at the bandit, but even as the weapon shoots off and lands in its intended target, impaling the man from side to side, he knows he’s too late.

The heady scent of Jaskier’s blood permeates the clearing and the bottom falls out from Geralt’s stomach as he stares at the arrow planted deep in the bard’s abdomen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a description of a battle and a bunch of bandits loose some limbs and are impaled. Basically canon style violence.
> 
> So I started playing Witcher 3 and the quest “on death’s bed” inspired me to write this little thing, so you can probably guess where it's going from here :3


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier stares dumbly at the fletching protruding out of his upper abdomen, sees the brilliant red that starts permeating the pearl white of his chemise, and looks back to meet Geralt’s alarmed gaze.

And then the pain hits.

He gasps out a choked breath and has a full body spasm, momentarily blinded by the blazing _pain_ in his stomach. It feels like someone has clawed inside him and pulled his guts out like stuffed turkey, like someone set him on fire and sat back to watch him burn to a crisp, like someone stabbed… well, someone did stab him in the stomach. And Melitele, it _hurts_.

He’s too focused on how much pain he’s feeling to notice Geralt all but running through the clearing to get to his side.

The witcher kneels on the muddied grass next to him, and reaches for his now blood drenched chemise, ripping it open with no regard for the delicate material. Jaskier tries for an offended grunt, that was a good chemise after all – silk doesn’t come cheap – but it catches in his throat as Geralt takes his big brute hands and presses them down on his stomach around the arrow, making a fresh wave of pain arise.

The sudden additive to the pain startles a scream out of Jaskier and he tries to reach for the hands, to pull them away, because they’re making him hurt more and the goal here is _stop the pain_ , not increase it. Geralt merely bats his arms away with a chiding grunt, though, and resumes his painful pressing thing.

Jaskier then realizes that Geralt is in the process of growling out the most impressive string of curses Jaskier has ever heard, and that’s considering he’s only heard half of it. A lot of them are directed at Jaskier, which the bard resents because he saved that damned man from an arrow to the back, the least he could do is show a little appreciation.

If Jaskier had the breath and the strength to talk in more than just monosyllabic words, he’d present this point to Geralt with a colorful tirade full of metaphors and showy turns of phrases. As it is, he is reduced to moaning out the occasional ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ between groans and whimpers of unbearable pain (although if someone asked if Jaskier had whimpered he would deny it until his dying day).

“… reckless bard throwing himself—you damned idiot, what were you thinking?” He catches the end of Geralt’s enraged ranting. 

“Saving you,” he gasps out between groans, kind of taken aback by the very powerful scowl that graces Geralt’s face. He’s been subject to many glowers and snarly faces during the course of their travels together (he could write a small encyclopedia on the many subtle variations of expressions and undertones of Geralt of Rivia by now), but this one definitely takes the cake.

If he didn’t know Geralt was secretly all mushy and a softy on the inside, he would be shaking in his boots. Assuming that he was standing that is, which he is not. Because there is an arrow in his stomach, and he is in unrelenting pain.

“You idiot!” Geralt turns his head to give him a positively smoldering look, Jaskier swears the burning feeling in his stomach even increases at the stare. “I told you to. Stay. Back,” he growls, enunciating his last words very forcefully and pointedly.

“Arrow guy was—”

“I knew he was there! I could have handled it!” Geralt snaps at him, making him grumble in disagreement. He could have handled it with an arrow to the back and then they would be in this exact reverse position or worse. Jaskier kind of prefers this outcome better if he does say so himself.

“Everything worked out,” Jaskier reasons, having to interrupt his sentence to gasp out another moan of pain. “Bandits gone, no arrow in your back and with a couple of days and bedrest I’ll be good as new. Right?”

Geralt offers no response, opting to glare at the arrow in his stomach like it had done him a great personal affront.

“Geralt? What are you—"

“Shut up,” Geralt barks out quite rudely. “I’m trying to think.”

Geralt grows quiet then, looking at the arrow sticking out of his stomach with a studying almost fearful gaze. The silence drags out for a whole few minutes, Jaskier’s muffled moans of pain are the only noises breaking the quietude, and the bard starts growing uneasy.

Silent Geralt scares him a lot more than angry cursing Geralt, and the look on the witcher’s face right now is not the least bit encouraging. Geralt is staring at his bleeding stomach like someone just kicked his puppy. Or Roach rather, since Geralt doesn’t own a puppy. Although, he’d wager that Geralt would behave more on the stabby and snarly side and less so sad and teary eyed if such a thing were to happen.

“Geralt?” he mumbles, the slightest bit of fear leaking through and showing in the slight waver present in his voice. If asked about it Jaskier would just blame it on the gaping hole in his stomach. 

Geralt turns his head to look at him sharply, like the sound of Jaskier’s voice calling his name just snapped him of whatever deep troubling train of thought he’d been riding.

“I— I’ll be fine, right?”

“Yes,” Geralt says quickly with forced determination. “Give me your hands.”

“Why?” Jaskier asks, shooting Geralt a confused look.

Geralt lets out a huff of frustration and removes one hand from Jaskier’s stomach to grab at Jaskier’s own, moving them over to lay on top of his and around the arrow.

“I need to go get something and I need you to keep pressure.” Geralt informs him, looking very intently and intensely into his eyes, like this order is of life or death importance. Which means that it probably is, Jaskier reasons with a growing sense of dread. 

He gulps and nods his head weakly, gingerly pressing down on the wound in an imitation of Geralt’s previous action. The tension on the wounded flesh makes him let out a hiss of pain and he releases some of the pressure.

Geralt presses down on top of his hand again, making him inhale sharply, and turns a scowl to him. 

“Keep the pressure,” he stresses, pining Jaskier down with angry urgent eyes. “I mean it, Jaskier. I don’t care if it hurts.”

“Fine,” Jaskier pants out, and tries his best to soldier through the pain.

Sufficiently satisfied that Jaskier will keep his end of the agreement, Geralt stands up and rushes over to Roach with powerful long strides of his muscly perfectly sculpted legs.

Perhaps this isn’t the best moment to be admiring Geralt’s toned quads, but then again, he may be dying, and Geralt has thighs to kill for, so when will he get a chance like this again? Jaskier prides himself on living in the present.

Geralt rummages through the saddlebags, retrieving various items as he scours through the contents. Jaskier can faintly make out some bandages and a bottle of something – the vodka he’d won in a game of gwent a few days back – in Geralt’s blurry hand.

Wait, Geralt isn’t supposed to be blurry, is he? Now that he notices, his surroundings have taken up a curiously fuzzy tinge as well, and his head is feeling strangely lighter, like he’s floating above the clouds and leaving the dirt and grit of the waking world behind. Even the pain is more bearable; it didn’t reduce in its magnitude, not in the slightest, but it’s somehow easier to put in on the backburner and focus on other things.

He can still vaguely make out Geralt though, and he notices that the witcher is hesitating, looking at something clutched in his hand with a conflicting expression. His brows are furrowed in a scowl Jaskier likes to call ‘iffy miffy’, which means that the witcher is probably warring with himself over something.

Abruptly, a surge of determination seems to wash over Geralt and his face sets as he curls his hand around whatever he’s holding. He turns around and strides back over too Jaskier, clutching the mystery object in his hand.

Jaskier still can’t quite make out what he’s grasping on to, since he’s holding the thing in a death grip and his much bigger hand engulfs the tiny object.

“Jaskier!” Geralt barks as he approaches, running the rest of the way. “I told you to stay awake!”

He actually hadn’t, not that Jaskier recalls at least, but he can see how that may be a bad thing. His head feels so light, though…

Geralt kneels by his side and shoves away the hands laying loosely over his stomach, replacing them with his own and pressing down, eliciting a gasp out of Jaskier. Oh, he was supposed to be doing that too… Geralt had told him to do that. When had he stopped? He couldn’t remember.

Geralt removes a bloodied hand from his stomach to reach for the vodka bottle, uncapping it with it’s teeth and spitting the cork to the side as he pours a generous amount of it over the bandages. Jaskier internally cringes at the waste of such a good brand vodka.

Once the bandage is sufficiently soaked Geralt tips the bottle over Jaskier’s wound with no warning whatsoever, making Jaskier scream and convulse on the floor from the intense burning sensation flaring up in his stomach. His arms flail around until he finds purchase on the ground, nails scratching in the dirt.

He lets out a few impressive expletives himself, gritting his teeth against the sting.

“What was that for?” he screeches, still riding the aftershocks of the sharp pain.

“To fight off infection,” Geralt clarifies with absolutely no resentment in his voice, the bastard.

“You could have warned me,” Jaskier gasps out, looking up at the starry night sky in an attempt to abstract himself from the incredibly painful situation at hand.

“Then you’d have been panicking over the pain,” he says matter-of-factly. 

“Still...” Jaskier grumbles, scowling up at the stars.

Geralt starts wrapping the alcohol-soaked bandage around his stomach, slipping a hand under his back with surprising gentleness to raise his torso enough for the bandage to pass under him. He secures the dressings around the arrow still embedded in Jaskier stomach, trying to immobilize it as best as he can.

“Shouldn’t we… remove it?” Jaskier asks, trying to give a vague gesture of a hand in the direction of the arrow. He barely manages to lift the limb off the ground though, achieving only a slight waver of his fingers.

“Not unless you want to bleed out,” Geralt grumbles, still trying to stretch the bandage around his stomach as tight as possible. The pressure is a bit on the uncomfortable side, but Jaskier’s new reality is pain, so it’s nothing new.

“What are you planning on doing, then? Leaving it in and hope for the best?” Jaskier inquires, only half joking. He’s pretty sure they are too far from any settlements or villages for Geralt to ride there with him in hopes of finding a healer (not that Jaskier was feeling particularly up to riding, he’d probably slide off Roach in the first thirty seconds) or bring one here.

Geralt grunts noncommittally. Great, just what he needs when he’s bleeding his guts out, an evasive witcher. 

Geralt removes his hands from the dressing then, sufficiently satisfied with his handiwork, and grabs another vial. It must have been what he was clutching in his hand before.

Jaskier looks at the little flask, recognizing the mahogany red liquid sloshing around inside as one of the witcher potions Geralt carries around and often drinks in preparation for a particularly gnarly monster. The ones he’s usually ordered to stay away from with that patented gruffy no-nonsense tone of voice, and a scowl to match.

According to what he’s gathered from Geralt’s admittedly scarce information sharing moods, those potions are a big no-no for measly squishy humans like himself. The stuff will make his insides boil and turn to chicken soup. So, why does Geralt look like he’s about to ask him to drink it?

“Geralt?” He asks, a distinct quiver in his voice now.

Geralt lifts his gaze from the vial clutched in his hands to look at Jaskier. There is a disturbingly defeated look to him right now, which is something that Jaskier _never_ wants to see on the witcher. It’s just— it’s _wrong_ ; and it adds to the growing pit of dread and shrouded panic forming in the depths of his stomach.

“Isn’t that one of your witchery potions?” Jaskier rasps out, shooting another look at the vial in Geralt’s hand.

Geralt is silent for a beat, but then he responds quietly, “Yes.”

“I thought humans weren’t supposed to drink that,” Jaskier whispers, feeling the first unabashed tendrils of panic seize his heart at the utterly somber look that Geralt shoots him. He doesn’t think he’s ever _seen_ the witcher exhibiting such an expression.

“They’re not.”

 _Shit._ Is he dying? Oh Melitele, _shit._ He can’t be dying yet, he’s not ready; he’s never tried est est wine, he hasn’t beaten Valdo Marx in the Redanian continental barding competition, he hasn’t told Geralt how he really feels—

“Jaskier!” Geralt barks, jolting him out of his panic induced crisis.

Jaskier looks up at him, hating how panicky he still feels, swallows and asks, “Is there no other way?”

Geralt’s silence is very telling.

“The swallow,” Geralt breaks off, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He looks back at Jaskier and starts again, “It’s a health regeneration potion. It stops internal bleeding. When ingested by humans it almost invariably causes unbearable agony and melts the mind, but…” he trails off.

“But I’ll die without it,” Jaskier finishes for him, feeling the dread engulf him whole. "You're sure?" he asks in a small voice.

The witcher takes on a contrite expression and reveals, "The arrow is the only thing keeping you from bleeding out, but it won't work much longer." Geralt looks away, frowning at the trees with a passion unlike any that Jaskier's ever seen.

“I’ll drink it.”

Geralt’s head snaps back to look at him. The witcher studies his face and nods, looking down to unscrew the vial with clumsy fingers. Since when is Geralt clumsy? The idea itself seems almost like an oxymoron.

The witcher may care more about him than Jaskier had been giving him credit for after all. The thought fills his panic fueled heart with misplaced happiness and satisfaction. Leave it to him to be content on his deathbed because the long-standing recipient of his affections may not feel completely indifferent about him.

Geralt slips a hand under his back to prop him up so he doesn’t choke on the drink and brings the vial up to Jaskier’s lips, probably guessing (rightly so) that Jaskier is far past the point where he has enough coordination and control of limbs to manage the feat himself.

Jaskier cracks his very dry feeling lips open and Geralt carefully tips the contents into his mouth.

Saying that the potion tastes foul is a euphemism. The tear-jerking bitter tang of the alcohol burns something mighty on his tongue and throat on its way down, and the clashing putrid aftertaste of something else Jaskier really doesn’t want to analyze too closely assaults his poor taste buds relentlessly.

He chokes after the first few gulps of the horrid stuff, his throat convulsing in protest at the vile liquid being shoved down, and the flask leaves his lips temporarily. He has barely managed to keep down the few mouthfuls he swallowed and catch his breath again when the potion returns.

Jaskier twists his nose but allows the rest of the liquid to be tipped into his mouth and forces himself to drink it down.

Geralt takes away the potion, finally, and Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief. He notices that Geralt only gave him about half of the vial’s contents, which is probably for the best, because he can already feel his stomach vigorously resent the amount he’d been given.

Geralt lowers his upper body to the ground and sets the rest of the potion aside, next to his hard won (now nearly empty) expensive bottle of vodka. What a pity.

Then, after a moment of apparent deliberation, Geralt slips his arms under his back again and raises him just enough to slip beneath him. He’s laid back down on the witcher’s lap and Geralt scoots them over a few feet so that he can rest his back against a tree trunk.

“Oh, this is nice,” Jaskier says softly, closing his eyes and tucking his head in the crook of the witcher’s shoulder.

“Shut up,” Geralt grumbles, but it holds no heat. "Stay awake," he adds, jostling him. 

Jaskier opens his eyes grudgingly and stares up at Geralt's molten pools of yellow.

“What do we do now?” Jaskier whispers, finding Geralt's eyes to be much like the stars lighting the sky up above.

“We wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, swallow potions (according to the witcher game), have drowner brains in them. Yuck. Poor Jaskier.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt stares in sheer horror at the crossbow bolt lodged in Jaskier upper stomach and feels the blood turn to ice in his veins.

 _Fuck no_. This can’t be happening.

The sheer panic and dread that seizes his normally lethargic heart is unfamiliar and utterly distressing. He is wholly unprepared for the sudden elevated rate at which it starts beating, so urgent it almost seems like it wants to escape his chest.

He balls his fists and finds himself running over to Jaskier before his mind even registers the command for his legs to move.

He falls to his knees next to the bard, hands shooting out to tug his chemise out of the way so he can see how bad it really is. There’s too much blood already, he can’t see. _He can’t see_.

With a hiss of frustration, he grips the blood sodden fabric and tears it apart. It tears easily against the brunt of the witcher's strength. 

It can’t be bad at it looks. It can’t be.

He finds himself growling out a steady flow of curses as he examines the wound, a strange intense feeling of dismay gripping his heart as he realizes the extent of Jaskier’s injury.

The bandit stabbed him at an upwards angle on the right side of his abdomen, and even though the arrow doesn’t seem to have perforated his lung, on account of the fact that the bard is breathing somewhat unobstructedly, the only benefit to it is buying Jaskier more time to bleed out in. Because the arrow undoubtedly went through his liver.

 _Fuck_.

He can feel crippling fear starting to creep on his mind and clouding his judgement, so, he does the only thing he can think to do; what he’s been trained to do. He turns it to anger.

He feels the sudden vicious need to spill the blood of the scoundrel who did this and cruelly regrets having killed him so fast. He should have flayed the man alive and rejoiced every second of it, drawn as much screams out of him as he possibly could. He feels more than enough of the rage necessary for it burn deep in his veins.

There is no one to take his frustration out on though, so he turns to the problem at hand and plants his own down on Jaskier's gushing wound. He needs to gain himself some more time to think. Because he _will not_ let Jaskier die. There has to be something he can do, something he hasn’t thought of yet.

After all the stupid utterly reckless stunts that Jaskier has pulled, this can’t be the thing that ends him. Not when the idiot was trying to _save him_ due to a misplaced self-sacrificing sense of duty.

Jaskier screams in protest at the pressure on the open wound and raises his arms to pull Geralt off, but the witcher slaps them away, shooting Jaskier a frustrated look.

He starts cursing at the bard again, needing an outlet for the blasted helplessness he’s experiencing and busies himself with trying to staunch the bleeding.

They are far too distant from any towns for him to ride off looking for a healer, and he can’t leave Jaskier alone anyway. He’d fall unconscious and then it wouldn’t be long until he fell prey to the clutches of death. Moving him is also out of the question, as it would very possibly dislodge the arrowhead in his liver and provoke massive bleeding.

He is shit out of luck. He rakes his mind for other options, but, the more he tries to think, the more his head refuses to cooperate and he comes up blank, being left only with a growing desperate kind of frustration. 

He starts ranting heatedly at Jaskier, being interrupted only when the bard chokes out a response to one of his throwaway reproaches. He feels another surge of frustration and pointed guilt when the bard admits to having been trying to protect Geralt.

Why had the idiot even thought of doing such a thing? The last thing he wants is to be the cause of anyone’s voluntary suffering. It’s almost worse than actually allowing himself to care about someone else, not to mention baffling. Which makes this situation all the worse, as it is a combination of the two. Melitele damn him, but he cares about Jaskier. Gods, he does.

They have an argument about Jaskier’s absolute foolhardy behavior that ends with the bard tentatively asking if he’s going to be ok. He’s trying to play it off, but his attempt is pitiful at best and even if Geralt couldn’t smell the bitter tang of fear and panic starting to emanate from the younger man, he’d be able to tell.

He doesn’t have the heart to reply, not willing to lie but also not being able to tell him the truth. He opts to glare at the damned arrow, struggling to think of something that could save the bard.

Jaskier tries to catch his attention and Geralt shushes him, looking down to gaze at the blood soaking his hands. There has to be something, anything. He has a fleeting thought and looks back at Roach, considering.

Maybe… no. He can’t. Giving Jaskier the swallow could be condemning him to a fate worse than death... but what other options does he have? If he does nothing he’s doomed to watch as the life bleeds out of the bard. And he refuses to sit through that.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice echoes again, in a quiet frightened tone.

Geralt snaps back to attention, turning his head to look at the bard, a terrible sinking feeling in his chest as he registers the blatant fear on his face. 

“I—I’ll be fine, right?” he asks, and Geralt can’t bear to hear the waver in his voice.

He settles his face into a mask of forced determination and bites out a ‘yes’. Gods help him, but he’s not letting this happen. “Give me your hands,” he orders. 

Jaskier shoots him a puzzled look and asks why, so Geralt huffs in frustration and grabs for his hands himself. If he’s really going to do this, he needs to move fast. The longer he takes, the more he risks Jaskier bleeding out regardless. And then he’d just be subjecting him to categorical torture for naught. 

He brings Jaskier’s palms down to lay over the wound and instructs him to put pressure on. Jaskier seems to comprehend the importance of the action and gives a weak nod of his head.

As soon as he puts some strain on his stomach he winces at the pain and visibly loosens the hold, though. Geralt pushes his hands down again.

“Keep the pressure,” he repeats, shooting a Jaskier a frustratingly pleading look and willing him to understand. “I mean it, Jaskier. I don’t care if it hurts.”

“Fine,” the bard pants out, and his face seems to set in determination.

Geralt gives a small exhale of relief and jumps to his feet, rushing over to Roach and doing his best to ignore the vivid taunting red of the blood that stains his hands. _Jaskier’s_ blood. There’s so much of it. And it’s everywhere.

He needs to burn his clothes when he’s done with this. When Jaskier is ok and they’re back on the path. Because Jaskier will be ok. He refuses to think otherwise.

He reaches his mare and starts rummaging through the saddlebags, trying to move as fast as he can, but he strangely realizes that his hands feel oddly clumsy and uncoordinated. He needs to focus. The loud panic in the back of his head is doing nothing to aid the situation.

He feels like screaming at himself. He never loses his cool, he doesn’t feel scared, he doesn’t panic. He’s finding himself doing and feeling a lot of things he isn’t supposed too lately, and the blame falls almost invariably on Jaskier.

He gathers some bandages and fishes out the bottle of vodka Jaskier had won a few days back. He’d gotten tipsy at a high-class establishment and still managed to play a band of noblemen for all that they had. In their defense, the noblemen hadn’t been very sober either.

It had been amusing at the time, especially because of the ridiculous little self-satisfied smirks that Jaskier threw him as he kept winning all the hands.

Geralt tried to look annoyed, but he couldn’t help the rebellious little tendrils of affection that tugged at his heart.

The memory rings with a sour taste in his mouth now. He doesn’t allow himself much more time to dwell on it as he pulls the bottle out and searches the bag for the last thing he’s looking for.

He finally grasps onto the familiar chipped glass of the little vial and retrieves it. He looks at the deep red shade of the swallow he has taken so many times himself and hesitates.

He knows what he is doing is a blatant violation of the witcher code; he is not give these kinds of potions to humans under _any_ circumstances, and there is good reason for that. Horrible fates befall those who were not previously prepared to receive such concoctions through the trial of the grasses.

After suffering through never ending bouts of all-encompassing agony, their minds would effectively melt. They couldn’t talk, think or react in any way for the rest of their lives. They would be dead in every sense of the word save for the heart still beating in their chests and their innate reflexes. Blinking, swallowing and shitting; a delayed corpse's life. 

He’s heard stories, though…of some that survived.

Those are said to be the ones who would thrive during the witcher formation trials if they were to be submitted to them. Jaskier admittedly doesn’t strike him as witcher material, but this is his only chance at surviving. He has nothing else to offer the bard, and he wants to cling to this little thread of hope and ignore every part of his mind that is yelling at him not to do it. 

He closes his hand around the vial with resolve, feels it setting in his face and ignores the logical little voice in the back of his head telling him that what he's doing is wrong, selfish and cruel. He doesn’t care anymore. He’ll do this, and if it doesn’t work… he’ll think about that when— _if_ it happens.

He turns around and strides back over to Jaskier. He glances down at the younger man and notices that he's looking strikingly paler and on the verge of losing consciousness. His hands now hang loosely on his abdomen, Geralt’s order to put pressure on the wound long forgotten.

“Jaskier!” He barks, trying to startle the man back into a more aware state of mind as he crosses the remaining distance between them at a run. “I told you to stay awake!”

He drops down next to the bard’s prone body and pushes his hands off, replacing them with his own as he evaluates the situation. The wound is still bleeding sluggishly, without any signs of stopping, and if Geralt intends to do something, he needs to do it now.

He grabs the bottle of vodka from among the other things he’d discarded to the side when he kneeled next to the bard and makes use of his teeth to pop the cork open. He spits its out once once it's free and douses the bandages with the hard liquor.

Technically, the swallow should take care of infection too, but Jaskier is only still a human, so he’s pulling out all the stops. Once he deems the bandage adequately soaked, he uses the rest of the alcohol to disinfect the wound.

Jaskier predictably bucks and screams his lungs out at the sudden sting, cursing the witcher up and down. At least the very least, he’s definitely more awake now.

“What was that for?” he shrieks, a small note of betrayal on his voice. 

“To fight off infection,” Geralt merely states. In his vast experience, it's always best to omit when certain necessary hurtful actions were about to take place within a medical context. He hated when the same thing was done to him, granted, but he had a much higher pain threshold and could deal with the pain just fine without panicking at its approach. He tells Jaskier an abridged version of this.

Geralt starts wrapping his stomach, trying his best to be as gentle as possible as he slips a hand under Jaskier's back to raise him up slightly.

“Shouldn’t we… remove it?” Jaskier asks, looking down at the blood colored arrow shaft.

“Not unless you want to bleed out,” Geralt grumbles back, tying the two ends of the bandages together in a firm knot. He needs the dressings as tight as possible to minimize the movement to the crossbow bolt. The worse thing that could happen was for the arrowhead to disconnect from the shaft and start wreaking even more internal damage.

The fact that the arrow tip was inside Jaskier’s abdomen makes everything infinitely more difficult. He’ll have to wait until the swallow is in effect to remove the arrow, and he’ll have to dig inside to secure the arrowhead before pulling on the shaft, which is not going to be fun.

“What are you planning on doing then? Leaving it in and hope for the best?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt can smell the underlying fear and panic in the question. He feels the sharp talons of guilt tear at his heart as he grunts out a noncommittal noise.

With the arrow more secure, he removes his hands from the dressing and reaches for the swallow, giving it one last wavering look.

Jaskier seems to sense his internal debate, and the younger man is far from stupid, no matter how many times Geralt curses him as such. He already suspects what it is, and what it means, judging from the way his heart picks up and his breath quickens.

“Geralt?” he mutters, voice wavering.

Something breaks in Geralt’s chest as he turns and sees the utterly terrified look on the bard’s face.

Fuck. This is his fault. He should have paid more attention, moved faster. It’s like he’s incapable of keeping blood off his hands. A myriad of faces belonging to all the lives he’s remorsefully taken traipses through his mind, Jaskier face taking up residence in the procession.

“Isn’t that one of your witchery potions?” Jaskier tries again, shooting the vial an anxious look.

Geralt takes in a shaky breath and tries to keep his voice steady as he replies, “Yes.”

This visibly perturbs Jaskier, who looks even more frightened.

“I thought humans weren’t supposed to drink that,” he whispers, and Geralt can smell the acrid scent of fear intensifying, sharp and sickening.

He swallows hard and says, “They’re not.”

Panic completely overtakes Jaskier at the admittance. It’s obvious in the way his eyes widen and his breaths turn impossibly more shallow, even if Geralt couldn’t smell it all around him. It’s all he _can_ smell. Jaskier’s fear and Jaskier’s blood. It’ll haunt his dreams for years to come.

“Jaskier,” he says, attempting to get his attention. He needs to stop the younger man from panicking, it’ll only cause him to bleed out faster. “Jaskier.” he tries again, sharper.

The bard shows no signs of listening to the witcher, too immersed in a panic fueled haze to notice anything else around him. The rabbit-fast pace of the bard’s heart is starting to worry Geralt.

“Jaskier!” He barks, finally successful in snapping the bard out his internal meltdown.

Jaskier turns wide blue eyes to him and asks, “Is there no other way?”

“The swallow,” he breaks off, incapable of going on. He closes his eyes and takes a long centering breath, trying to ward off the despair he can feel permeating his very bones. He needs to be better than this, he’s supposed to be a rock for Jaskier right now, he doesn’t have the privilege of losing his nerve.

He starts talking again, managing a better explanation of what the swallow actually is, but he can’t bring himself to finish his sentence.

Jaskier understands what he means perfectly though, and fills in the blanks for him, “But I’ll die without it. You’re sure?” 

Geralt looks at him regretfully and tells him how bad the situation really is. He can’t bear to see the scared look on Jaskier’s face and looks away.

He takes in a weary breath. No matter how much he wants to give the swallow to the bard and disregard the old witcher rules, he won’t do it without his permission.

“I’ll drink it.” Jaskier small voice rings out and he snaps his head back to look at him.

Geralt studies the bard’s face to judge his resolve and finds that, underneath the fear, Jaskier appears willing to do it. He nods and starts unscrewing the vial, cursing the fingers that still don’t seem to be able to cooperate fully. If he were a better man, he may have tried to talk Jaskier out of it. 

He manages to uncap the flask and reaches a hand between Jaskier’s shoulder blades to prop him up.

Bringing the vial up to Jaskier’s lips, he tilts it over carefully, mindful of the amount he’s pouring. He knows perfectly well what the potion tastes like, and, predictably, Jaskier gags after the first mouthfuls.

He removes the flask and let’s Jaskier get his breath back under control before bringing it back to his lips. He pours about half more of the remaining liquid into Jaskier’s mouth, in a steady trickle that won’t make the bard choke again.

He’s playing it on the safe side and not giving Jaskier the entire contents. He doesn’t know if it’ll actually make any difference, or if the healing action will be affected by it, but seeing as Jaskier is human, it’s probably safer.

With as much care as he can manage, he lays Jaskier back down slowly and puts the half empty vial aside.

Jaskier looks so fragile and scared, it’s a look that the witcher never wanted to see on him. It also fills him with an inexplicable need to _comfort_. Geralt doesn’t _comfort people_.

Witchers aren’t meant to console, aren’t meant to use their hands for uses other than yielding steel and silver. They’re also not supposed to have emotions and _care_ about others, but it has been established that Geralt fails pretty resoundingly at being a witcher.

He often wonders why he even survived the trial of grasses when even amongst his kin he is an outlier.

He doesn’t have the willpower to fight off to the part of his mind that craves to hold Jaskier close, so he finds himself lifting the bard and laying him back on his lap. There is a nice sturdy tree a few feet away that he can use for a backrest, so he scoots them over and leans back.

Jaskier let’s out a pleased little noise and murmurs, “Oh, this is nice.”

Geralt feels a hint of embarrassment and tells the bard to shut up, but he can’t find it in himself to actually mean it.

He notices the bard has closed his eyes and gives him a gentle nudge, telling him to stay awake. Keeping Jaskier conscious for as long as he can manage should improve his chances of survival, if only slightly.

“What do we do know?” Jaskier rasps, cornflower blue eyes looking up to meet his with such a look of unabashed trust that Geralt’s heart twists in chest. He doesn’t deserve to be looked at like that, he’s the reason Jaskier lays in his arms bleeding out.

If he dies, the burden will weigh heavier in his heart than all others until he meets the end of his exceedingly long miserable life. Especially considering what Geralt has just done out of complete selfishness and unwillingness to let the bard go so soon. He may have just robbed Jaskier of a dignified and relatively painless death.

He sighs and replies, “We wait.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Geralt's pov for your enjoyment! I hope it's not too repetitive to read the same thing over again, I added information that I felt was necessary for a deeper undestanding of the story (and tried to gloss over the parts that had been spoken about in detail in Jaskier's pov, namely dialogue)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ the endnotes for new trigger warnings please!!

Jaskier feels light and fragile in his arms as Geralt holds him through the cool windy night, keeping an ear trained on his heart rate and breath pattern. They were somewhat steady and regular for the first quarter of an hour, but as of ten minutes ago, his heart started to pick up, and his breathing turned shallow.

At the moment, Jaskier lays limply in his arms, chest rising and lowering minutely as he puffs out increasingly tiring looking short breaths. His eyelids start to droop for about the fifth time in the last five minutes and Geralt nudges him again, mumbling his name.

“Stay awake,” he orders pointedly, earning a sharp intake of breath from the bard as his eyes flutter open and jump around, unfocused.

Jaskier isn’t looking good, aside from the horribly pale tinge that has settled in his skin, Geralt can smell the cold sweat and the continuous stench of blood and suffering coming off him in waves. Some of those effects have been worsened or even triggered by the swallow, Geralt is aware, but the worst of it will be far more severe.

“Sorry,” the bard rasps out as his eyes land on him. “Tired.”

Geralt hums and runs a hand over the bard’s forehead, brushing the sweat soaked locks back. His temperature has increased alarmingly in the last handful of minutes, it shouldn’t be long now until the swallow starts showing its effects in earnest.

He should find a way to keep the bard distracted and awake. Usually, Jaskier would go off on speeches and tangents unsolicited, but that is clearly not happening now, and Geralt is a shit conversationalist. He has no idea what to say to keep the younger man talking; they’ll just end up trading monosyllabic responses like they’ve done so far.

Maybe he can ask the bard to do something else.

“Sing to me.”

Jaskier frowns up at him, a drowsy confused look on his face. Had the situation been different, Geralt might have even called the expression endearing… in the privacy of his own mind, that is.

If Jaskier had an inkling of Geralt’s true feelings, he’d never shut up. Although, Geralt couldn’t see why that had struck him as such a bad idea before. He’d give anything to have Jaskier talk his ear off now.

“Is the white wolf—” Jaskier breaks off to wheeze out a breath— “actually asking me to sing of his own volition? If I’d known dying was all it took to make you appreciate my music, I would have tried it before.”

Geralt grunts, feeling a twinge of regret and guilt pulling at his heart. He should have treated Jaskier better when he had the chance, told him about how soft and soothing he found his voice, and how it tempered even his foulest moods to heart it singing of him.

It amazes Geralt how, after years of being by his side and being subjected to the witcher’s horrible social skills, specially considering the bard has enough of those to rule a sizeable court, Jaskier still seems to want to stick around him. It makes no sense, and it will now be his downfall, apparently. Geralt should’ve never allowed the bard to tag along and get under his skin. 

Getting close to people only served for getting himself hurt when they eventually left or died. Geralt has had this lesson taught to him enough times that you’d think it had actually stuck by now, but apparently not.

Jaskier is quiet, brow furrowed in concentration as he seems to debate which song to pick, either that or his mind is already having difficulty processing and remembering the lyrics.

He’s about to stir the bard again when the first few notes of a familiar melody fall from his lips. Geralt stills and leans back, letting the calming sound of Jaskier’s voice soothe his frayed nerves.

This particular song is one he’s heard many times before, composed after an ordeal with a corrupt doppler that had caught Geralt off-guard. He’d fallen right into the creature’s trap, and, had it not been for Jaskier rallying the support of a dozen fighting men from the village, after discovering the true identity of the thing in a (not so) rare display of intelligence, he’d have been six feet under.

As it was, they managed to warn him in in time and he succeeded in subduing the creature.

Jaskier lives to tell that story. Geralt just grumbles.

He finds that he doesn’t mind it much now.

The bard sings, a raspy fractured voice filling the air, and while the sound is painful to listen, it is no less beautiful because of it. The forest itself seems to quiet in response, as if listening attentively. Jaskier has always had a way of entrancing people with his music, he should have known wildlife to be no exception.

He sings of the witcher, of the white wolf and his feats, of his ‘kind nature’ and ‘honorable demeanor’. Things Geralt would have scoffed at  _ before _ . He doesn’t like the before anymore. He doesn’t want to go back.

He didn’t have a buoyant bard with a devilishly sliver-tongue and sharper wit back then, someone who made him think that perhaps he wasn’t quite the monstrous creature he had envisioned himself to be.

Monsters couldn’t possibly attract souls so pure and bright as Jaskier’s after all, could they? And the bard seemed to gravitate towards him like a moth to a flame. Or more of a butterfly, he corrects himself as an afterthought. They were colorful and pretty, graceful yet fragile, and people always sought out to clip their wings, greedily taking all that beauty for themselves with nary a thought to the spark of life they were snuffing out. 

Butterflies were meant to fly free, Geralt shouldn’t have tied this one down with tethers, no matter how much its beauty had appealed to him. This is his penance.

Jaskier must also sing songs he had still been working on, for Geralt recognizes only chunks of melody at times.

He breaks off occasionally, but Geralt urges him on, and, after a few shaky breaths, he resumes. He sings of adventure, of fortune, revelry and love, and when he runs out of words, he hums a tune.

Geralt closes his eyes and listens, hoping against all odds that it won’t be the last he hears of Jaskier’s voice. 

A short time after Jaskier starts humming, he cuts himself off, breath turning extremely labored as he begins to squirm in his arms. His eyes go wide and his heart speeds up in his chest, a rabbit-fast pace against his palm.

The until then petered out scent of fear rears up again, and Geralt feels his nostrils flaring, picking up on the bitter tangl.

“Geralt? I don’t— I feel weird,” Jaskier croaks, voice quivering with pain and confusion. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

Geralt tries to swallow around the sudden painful knot in his throat and feels himself involuntarily tighten the hold on the bard, heart sinking low in his chest. The potion is starting to take effect.

“You’re fine,” he tries to say, but his voice cracks and betrays him on the last syllable. Fuck.

The bard’s eyes grow bleary as they shoot wildly around, unable to fix on anything for long. His hand is twitching uselessly on the ground, clinging and grasping to nothing but air, so Geralt reaches down and takes it in one of his, cradling it like a precious gem.

Jaskier seems to calm with the contact, so Geralt uses his other hand to brush through his hair in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. His hair is slick with sweat and matted with dirt and bits of blood, which Geralt had probably put there. He had tried to wipe the worst of the blood on his clothes before, but it did little to rid his hands of it.

Geralt feels a weak squeeze of his fingers as Jaskier’s breath stutters and his heart rate spikes up again, a surge of pain and fear cutting through the air, sharp as a blade.

He’ll need to pull the arrow soon.

He looks down at the blood sodden bandage, still holding the arrow shaft in place, He doesn’t have much more dressings, but he’ll need to use the rest to rewrap the wound after he removes the arrow. Hopefully it’ll be enough to last the trip to the nearest settlement. 

Small shaky noises of distress draw his attention back to the bard, a vicious feeling gripping his chest as he notes that Jaskier has screwed his eyes shut and knitted his brows together, face contorting into an expression of pain.

The whimpers grow louder, and every soft sob feels like a stab at Geralt’s heart. He feels restless with the need to do something, to make this right somehow, but he’s powerless to do anything but keep holding the younger man in his arms as the smell of misery builds, steadily and swiftly. This is all his fault to begin with.

The faint gasps of pain soon give way to startled yelps and strangled moans, and Geralt feels the slender hand grasped in his start to clutch on harder.

There’s a distressed neigh to his right and he looks up bewildered. He’d forgotten about Roach in the commotion, but the mare stands off to the side, with what he would describe as a concerned and fearful expression gracing her face.

Jaskier lets out a sudden loud cry that rips through the air and leaves a painful ring in Geralt’s ears, and his whole body convulses on the witcher’s lap. Geralt’s hands jump down to try and steady the shaking bard, prevent him from jostling the arrow in his stomach too much, but it proves to be harder task than expected when Jaskier continues jerking violently in his arms.

He needs to take the arrow out now, or he’ll cause too much damage later. The swallow has obviously already started to act, so, if it acts accordingly, Jaskier shouldn’t bleed out.

He wraps one arm around the bard in what has to be a vice-like grip for human standards and hates himself for it as Jaskier cries grow desperate and agonized. He barely stands the thought of having to cause the younger man even more pain, but he hasn’t come all this way for nothing. He’ll do what needs to and Jaskier will be ok. He has to be. 

Tugging the bandages away from the protruding arrow, he notes the way blood is still trickling sluggishly from the wound and steels himself against the sight. He feels the familiar wrongness of the unnatural self-enforced state of calm he was trained to assume wash over him, steadying his motions and clearing his mind, and reaches down, settling his hand around the arrow.

He sucks in a deep breath, grits his teeth and digs inside.

Jaskier’s screeches turn inhumane as he thrashes with renewed vigor against Geralt’s hold, and the witcher is forced to tighten his grip even more to keep him from doing further damage.

There’s a subdued part of his mind screaming at him, in tandem with Jaskier’s howls of agony echoing painfully in his ears, but he can’t allow himself to dwell on that right now. He keeps trailing down the length of the shaft and searches for the broadhead tip, being as stable and precise with his movements as he can manage.

He’s trying to avoid enlarging the wound as much as he can, but his hands are stupidly large, not made for this kind of procedure, and he’s scared that he’s fucking this up worse than it already is.

There’s a line of blood dribbling from Jaskier’s mouth and, for a second, Geralt feels abysmal dread, thinking that he’d just punctured Jaskier’s lung or somehow misjudged his injuries. The bard lets out another ear splitting scream and Geralt realizes, somewhat relieved, that he had just bitten his tongue.

He should have given Jaskier something to bite down on. Shit. He sucks at this. 

He’s still trying to get his fingers around the arrowhead when Jaskier goes suddenly limp in his arms. Geralt’s heart stops in his chest as he holds his breath, stopping his motions altogether as a growing pit of terror settles in his stomach. He waits to hear Jaskier’s heartbeat, straining his enhanced hearing beyond possible as he is left in an excruciating state of suspense.

Seconds drip by like molasses, but finally, thankfully, he hears the faint unsteady beat of Jaskier’s heart underneath his palm, followed by a raspy fractured puff of air, and all the tension drains out of him. He sags against the tree and lets out a choked breath, fighting back the surge of blind panic that still sizzles in the pit of his stomach.

He needs to control it, he can't stop now. Jaskier's life depends on it.

He takes in two long breaths, closes his eyes, opens them, and proceeds. He’s already felt the tip of the broadhead brushing against the ends of his fingers, so all he needs to do is reach a little deeper and he should have enough of a hold to pull the arrow out.

He’s doing his best to ignore the new rivulets of blood that flow freely from Jaskier’s stomach when he finally gets his thumb under the rim of the blade. The edge may be dulled but he can still feel it nick the pads of his thumb and index finger as he tugs on it, being mindful to not let it catch around the sides.

It sides off steadily and comes free with a sickening squelch, streams of vivid red blood pouring out in its wake. He tosses the arrow aside with an impulsive growl and immediately plants his hand down to try and contain the bleeding.

His mouth is achingly dry, and his heart hasn’t beaten this fast for such a long period of time since he was submitted to the trial of grasses, but he pushes all of that aside.

Jaskier is quiet and still in his arms, a complete opposite of the state he was in a few minutes ago.

On the one hand, Geralt is relieved. If Jaskier is unconscious he at least gets some respite from the atrocious pain he knows the swallow was causing. However, he has no idea if Jaskier not being awake for the process will have major consequences in the long haul.

All he can do now is wait and try to keep the injury clean. No need to add infection to the list of things the swallow needs to repair.

As gently as possible, he lifts Jaskier from his lap and settles him back on the soft grass, trying to pull the sodden bandages back over the wound. It’s a futile endeavor, those wrappings aren’t doing anything anymore other than increasing the likelihood of sickness. They’re too loose and too drenched.

He gets up and goes over to Roach again, wiping his hands again on his already blood soiled pants so he doesn’t get more of it spread all over his saddlebags. Roach nickers and neighs quietly at his return, an anxious look about her as he tries to give her a few reassuring pats. He doesn’t want to stain her hair though, so he refrains from touching her too much.

Reaching into the bags, he gets the last of the bandages and the cleanest rag he has before heading back over to Jaskier.

The bard shows no signs of waking or alertness, so still and quiet where he lies that Geralt would be worried had he not been able to hear his heart.

Geralt takes away the soaked bandage and does his best at cleaning the wound with the rag he pours the last of the vodka over. It’s messy and a bit of an ineffective attempt, there’s too much blood for the rag to be of much use, but he tries his best.

He discards the soiled bandages and sets about wrapping the wound again, tight and secure. When that’s done, he sits back, at a loss for what to do.

He’s removed the arrow, cleaned up the wound to the best of his ability and rewrapped it. The only thing left to do is pray that the injury or the swallow don’t end up killing the bard.

Geralt is not a praying man, he doesn’t think much of destiny or higher powers, but he’s willing to make an exception for Jaskier. He’d do anything that might improve his chances in the slightest.

He doesn’t like to see the bard laying in the cool dirtied ground, so he gets up and fetches his bedroll, rolling it out besides him and dragging him gently to lay on top of it.

It does nothing to ease the frozen expression of distress on the bard’s face, or the scent echoes of pain and misery still hanging in the air, but it’s, at the very least, a small comfort.

Geralt lays down on the ground next to the bard’s prone body, back to the grass as he stares up at the sky and keeps an ear on him. Always an ear on him. He has the beat of that heart burnt into the back of his mind now, a whispered drumming in tune with the ghosts of melodies that poured from the bard’s mouth.

The ground is a little hard against his back, but he doesn’t have the energy to get up and grab his bed roll as well, and besides, he doesn’t deserve the luxury. Whatever discomfort he suffers, it doesn’t compare to what he’d put Jaskier through.

The sky isn’t pitch black anymore, there are tinges of dark blue here and there, a herald of the approaching dawn looming over his head.

He looks up and loses himself in the vast oceans of stars. He must doze off unwillingly at some point, for the next time he notices, the sky is no longer dark and somber, but a soft and soothing light blue with orange tinges creeping in.

He stirs, memories of the night before ringing loudly and urgently in his head like the sounding of a war horn.

Jaskier. The swallow.

He shoots up, gaze shooting wildly to land on the still figure next to him. The bard hasn’t moved at all, still laying on his back in the bed roll where Geralt had left him.

Geralt doesn’t dare move as he listens for the beat, the whole world around narrowing around him to this single point. His heart is in his throat when he finally hears Jaskier’s own.

He lets out the breath he’d been holding and runs a hand through his face. For a terrifying second, he thought he’d lost the bard and hadn’t even been awake for it.

He catches a little flutter of Jaskier’s eyelids and jumps into action, reaching forward in instinctive gesture but ending up with his hands hovering uncertainly over the bard.

“Jaskier?” he pleads, hearing the desperation in the word even as he speaks it.

Jaskier doesn’t show any outward signs of having heard Geralt, face remaining lax and unaware even as Geralt reaches down to give him a gentle shake.

Geralt’s heart sinks, the beginnings of dread and horror pooling in the pit of this stomach.

“Jaskier,” he tries again, the sound coming out undeniably more choked.

Nothing in the bard’s face changes, but his eyes do open finally. Geralt almost feels relief, but then he notes the glazed over sheen to Jaskier’s eyes, how they just stare ahead unblinkingly and dull, not focusing on anything at all.

Something  _ shatters _ in his chest.

What has he done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Geralt has to dig around inside Jaskier's abdomen for the arrowhead before he removes it. I tried to not focus on the gore of it too much, but I don't know if I was very successful.  
> In the end of the chapter, it's implied that the potion affected Jaskier's brain, as he doesn't show any signs of cognition, but I would like to remind everyone that this story *does* have a happy ending!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the 'forest incident'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ the endnotes for trigger warnings!
> 
> And another story comes to an end! I really hope you like this! Let me know what you think about it :33

Debora picks at a speck of dust with her rag, swiping it away. The dust shimmers in the air as it disperses, swirling, and she fights backs the urge to sneeze. She gives the table one last cursory sweep, trying to leave it in the best condition possible. Nenneke likes her work stations clean, and Debora aims to please the high priestess. The wood is aged and spotted though, likely from bodily fluids. Blood stains wood something mighty. 

This particular table only holds herbs now, some concoction the healing Sisters have come up with. She doesn’t understand much of what the healers say, her job in the temple isn’t to assist in the infirmary, after all, she is but a simple priestess. Her chores consist in tidying the rooms between morning mass and lunch. The rest of the day she spends pruning the temple’s gardens and helping out in the kitchens. 

She’d been born of lowly peasant parents, ones who couldn’t afford to feed another mouth, so they’d handed her off to the Sisters of Melitele. She had no recollection of them, only the Sisters. This temple was her home, and the priestesses her family, so when time came for her to come of age and decide her fate, she’d naturally chosen to stay and serve under the ones who’d once cared for her. 

She turns, glancing around the room to see if there’s something amiss. The space is pretty bare, seeing as its sole inhabitant doesn’t get up to do much. He’s a young man, about her age, she’d say. The Sisters had brought him up from the infirmary a number of months ago, now. They had claimed whatever ailed him couldn’t be fixed with any medicine, it was a matter of the spirit, of the soul, and they could provide no further assistance for him in the sickroom. 

The man sleeps. All day and all night. Everytime Debora steps foot in the room, he’s in deep slumber. She’d thought he’d been the victim of a curse or some foul pranks of the gods, but she’s heard the Sisters talking, saying that there’s something wrong with him, up in his head. They say something broke in his mind, and that he’s never to wake again. 

Sometimes when she comes to clean his room, he has his eyes wide open, but they simply stare numbly and lifeless up at the ceiling. She’d caught an awful fright the first time she’d seen it, rushed out of the room like it was on fire to warn the Sisters. They’d reassured her, told her it was normal, that even though he was alive and breathing, still had the reflexes of a normal man, his mind was gone. It was like his body lived on separate from himself, like a snail that had left its shell, hollow and empty.

It all seems incredibly scary and morbid to her. She doesn’t like to linger on such thoughts, they give her unpleasant dreams. The young man intrigues her, though.

There’s a lute resting by the windowsill, certainly not brought in by the Sisters. It showed up shortly after he did. The instrument is littered with intricate carvings, beautiful and masterfully etched. Truly the work of a master luthier. No such thing would be part of the temple. They lead simple lives here, they do not waste their coin on pretty elaborate things such as this. The lutes they do have for mass are modest, all plain wood with no inscriptions. 

Although beautiful, the lute looks well-lived. There are a few scratches here and there, and the strings are obviously worn from use, it belonged to someone who used it regularly, and had great care for it. She suspects it was brought in by the white-haired one, the one who comes to visit every month without fault. 

Debora didn’t see who brought the sleeping man in, but she’s pretty sure it was him. She doesn’t know much about him, but she’s heard the other priestesses talk of ‘the witcher’. Judging by the twin swords he carries on his back, and his truly fearsome look, she’s pretty sure he’s the one they speak of. He seems to know Nenneke as well, but she doesn’t bother the high priestess with her idle curiosities, it’s not becoming of a Sister of Melitele.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t get curious or try to sneak some looks in when the man visits, however. Nothing of much interest happens in the temple after all, she needs to get her entertainment from where it’s available. 

The first thing that strikes a person about the witcher when one lays eyes on him, is his abnormally white hair, the second his unnaturally yellow eyes. It’s quite unsettling to find oneself at the end of a stare like that, she imagines. She’s kept mostly out of his way when he visits, only casting a glance up from where she stands in the inner gardens as the man scurries off to his friend’s room. He’s always in a rush that one, but when he gets to the chamber, he can stay inside it with not a peep for up to an entire day. It’s quite odd.

She usually tidies the room after he leaves, looking very gloomy and somber as he goes. She’s caught a book atop the table multiple times, sometimes the same one, sometimes different ones. It’s normally a poetry book, though.

She’s pretty sure the witcher has been reading to him everytime he visits, and occasionally forgets to put the books away. She’s walked by the place a couple times when he was in, and heard the deep gruff of a male voice resonating from inside. It’s quite a touching thing for him to do: to keep visiting his friend and sitting with him for a day, reading and talking, even if the other man doesn’t seem to hear much of anything. 

Perhaps he is cognisant in some hidden part of his brain, perhaps, somewhere in that deep slumber of his, he can recognize the people that come and speak to him. Perhaps the witcher is hoping he’ll awake. She hopes he does as well. If only to see the witcher’s perpetual grim face melt into a smile. She bets he’d look handsome if he smiled, and if anyone could make him do so, it would be the young man he seems so intent on not leaving behind. 

The referred to young man is staring up at the ceiling with that numb look so typical of him by now. He was sleeping when she entered the room, but now he blinks once, twice, and stares some more. 

With a sigh, she throws the rag over her shoulder and heads for the door. She still needs to clean six more rooms before lunch hour.

The man stirs on the bed behind her, but she’s already left the chamber. 

* * *

Geralt pulls his blade out from the forktail’s chest, watching the creature sink to the ground with a deafening dying screech. It had been a remarkably easy fight, for a draconid. He’d gotten lucky: had the right angle on the creature to strike for the heart, and he’d taken it. 

Now, the forktail huffs its last breath by his feet, going still on the ground. At least it was a moderately swift and painless death. He prefers it that way. 

The contract for this beast hadn’t been particularly high, just a couple dozen orens, enough to last him a few weeks. He's planning on leaving half of it to Nenneke next time he’s in Ellander, which, now that he’s thinking about it, should be sometime around now. Perhaps he can head there after collecting his reward from the alderman. He’s close enough, the trip ought to take him only half a week. 

He grabs the forktail by its front horn and sets about retrieving the trophy to present in the village. Once its head is free from its body, he tosses it in one of the burlap sacks he keeps around for such occasions and ties it to Roach’s saddle. The mare gives a little whine of distaste and he gives her a pat in apology. 

The forktail had laid its lair moderately close to the village, so it’s a short ride to reach the main square. He gets the usual looks of fear and mistrust as he enters, probably heightened by the blood leaking sack he brings in tow. 

He dismounts and heaves the bag over his shoulder, walking up to the alderman’s manor as the few women that lazed on the stairs scurry away. He notices a little book shop hidden away in a corner of the square as he goes, and makes a note to head there once he has his payment. It’s been a while since he's brought Jaskier a new book.

He’d been bringing them to him for a while now, fancy leather bound ones, the kind he thinks Jaskier would like. They’re mostly poetry, though he did find a prose one once and bought it as well -- the name of the author had rung a bell in his head, he thought he’d heard the bard mention it at some point. He doesn’t have much competence for the literary arts however, and thus, has no idea if Jaskier would actually appreciate them, or if he’d deem them obsolete codswallop. Still, he reads to him, and tries to imagine what his reactions would have been were he able to talk.

The Sisters say he can’t hear anything, that he’s not there anymore, only his body remains. But he still looks like himself, he still smells like himself, and, perhaps, if Geralt keeps treating him like himself, his mind will mend and he will wake. It’s his last hope now.

When he’d first dropped Jaskier off in the Temple, a couple months back, right after the incident in the woods, he’d kicked up a storm in the sickbay until Nenneke showed up and tried to calm him down. She’d handed the bard off to the other Sisters and herded him outside, demanding to know what had gotten into him.

He hadn’t seen her for a while, not since the striga princess in Vizima, and at that time he hadn’t known Jaskier for long, so he hadn’t told her about him. Now, he did. He told her the truth, the whole truth. How he’d met a bard in Posada, how the young man refused to be shaken off even when Geralt gave it his most vicious tries, how he’d crawled under his skin, and ultimately, how Geralt had inevitably fucked it up in the end. Like he always did. 

Nenneke gave him a sad pitying look then, and he’d had no wrath left in him to even bristle at the woman. Only grief and guilt remained. He’d brought this upon himself after all: he’d been too selfish and blinded by fear of losing someone he’d allowed himself to care about when he’d chosen to give Jaskier that potion. He stupidly believed that everything would’ve been fine because how could it not? It was Jaskier they were talking about, nothing could keep him down for long. Surely he’d be the exception, just because Geralt refused to lose him like that. Now he got to lose him in a whole other kind of way. A slow painfully depressing way. And for what? 

Jaskier -- actual Jaskier -- his self, his spirit, had died in agony, enduring one of the worst types of pain a man could experience, and he’d done it in his arms. All that remained now was a shell. And Geralt could have avoided that, if only he hadn’t been as egoistical as he had. 

He’d all but ran away once he left Jaskier in the temple, a wolf with its tail tucked between his legs, hiding out in the mountains and lashing out against the endregas and wyverns that happened across his path. He’d had taken a couple of months to work up the courage to set foot in Ellander again. He knew he had to though, this was his doing, it was his responsibility. So he started going every month, bringing an offering for the Sisters every time he visited, and something for Jaskier as well. He left the books in the room when he brought them, he had no use for them, after all. The bookcase was rounding up quite the collection. 

The first time he’d seen Jaskier after dropping him off, he’d been overcome with a mixture of anguish and relief. There he laid, still and breathing, seemingly so peaceful and relaxed. It appeared as if he was merely napping, that he’d awake if Geralt were to call his name, spring off the bed and demand they hit the road. But he didn’t, he kept lying there even as Geralt talked to him, never responding. 

Geralt hadn’t even known he’d started forgetting the shade of blue of Jaskier’s eyes until he’d gone there one day and they’d been open. Still, Jaskier didn’t respond, or give any outward signs up acknowledgment. The joy at the apparent progress had left him almost as soon as it appeared. Now he thinks he’s forgetting the sound of his voice. And that above all else, leaves a gaping hole in his chest, a very painful one. 

Nenneke came to talk to him one time, telling him what he already knew: that, even though Jaskier breathed, his life had long left him, and it was likely not returning. She said she was worried about him, that she feared he was getting his hopes up for something that would likely never come to pass. Even though the Sisters would do everything in their power to help, there was little they could do but keep feeding Jaskier by hand and provide him with a bed. She wanted him to prepare himself for the inevitable. He’d grit his teeth to stop from snapping at the high priestess, stormed off, and not returned for a good while.

She hadn’t broached the subject with him again after that, but he could feel her gaze, tired and concerned, following him around every time he came to the temple. 

* * *

Geralt slows Roach to a trot, catching sight of the temple’s towers peeking out from behind the tree branches. The mare lets out a huff of breath as he pulls slightly on the reigns, and he gives her a grateful pat on the neck. He’ll sneak a carrot from the kitchens to feed her once they arrive. She lacks the usual treats she received from the bard when they travelled together, and she’s been particularly ornary of late because of it. 

He enters the temple at a slow pace, bowing his head slightly in greeting to the Sisters that gathered in the entrance. He leads Roach to the stables and settles her in a clean stall, making sure she has fresh hay to nibble on. 

Once she’s set, he grabs his bags, with the book he got for Jaskier, and makes his way through the inner halls to the upper level, to the room Jaskier is being kept in. He knows the path by heart now, from all the times he’s taken it. 

The chamber stands facing an inner courtyard, with a small fountain and a statue of the goddess. He sees some Sisters lounging there occasionally, tending to the plants or reading a book of psalms. The space is mostly deserted now, with only a young woman pruning the white roses by the small altar. She shoots him a curious look as he passes, but returns to her flowers almost as soon as their eyes cross. Even here they’re a little unsettled by him, Nenneke is the only one truly unafraid. 

He keeps walking and reaches the end of the hall, pausing at Jaskier’s doorstep. There’s nothing different about it, so he has no reason to think anything has changed as he grabs for the knob and pushes the door open. He freezes as soon as he does. 

The room is empty. The bed Jaskier has laid in for the past year or so is bare, the bed linens pulled up and made, ready to accommodate another person. He shoots his head to the windowsill, where he’d left Jaskier’s lute when he visited the first time. There’s nothing. The lute isn’t there. 

He can’t breathe. 

Blinding panic creeps on him, stopping his heart in his chest and turning his blood to ice as he stumbles back out of the room, not understanding. Where is Jaskier? He has to be here. It’s his room, he has to--  _ Where is he? _

He pivots on his heels, charging down the courtyard and barely noticing the group of Sisters that yelp and jump out of his way when he barrels past. He doesn’t register anything, only the need to find Jaskier. He storms through the halls, making his way down to the floor below the infirmary with his heart in his throat. He needs to make sure, needs to know if Jaskier is-- if Jaskier is...

He doesn’t get to finish his line of thought, and he doesn’t get to reach the mortuary, because Nenneke plants herself in his path with a mighty scowl on her face, and even in his panicked crazed state he knows better than to cross the old matron. He comes to a stop in front of her, his feet skidding on the stone floor. 

“Geralt!” she admonishes, hands planted on her hips as she glowers at him. “What in the goddess’s name do you think you’re doing? You’ve scared half the Sisters to death! Put that sword away, now!”

He frowns in confusion, looking down at his hands. He’s surprised when he finds his right fist tightly wrapped around the handle of his silver sword. He hadn’t even realized he’d reached for it, must have done so in some instinctive reaction triggered by the frenzied haze he was in. He grits his teeth and sheathes the sword, trying to get his erratic heart under control. 

“I apologize, Nenneke. I-- Jaskier--” His voice cracks under the sound of his bard’s name. 

Nenneke’s face softens at this, and she gives a weary sigh. “Should have known this was about him. Come with me,” she says, turning around and heading back up the stairs. “I’ll take you to him.” 

He follows after her, quiet and subdued. 

She leads him to the upper levels of the keep, and he’d be more amazed at how spry she seems to be in her golden years if he wasn’t busy feeling like his whole world was crashing around him. She brings him to a small terrace in the western front of the temple and pulls the double doors open for him, raising her eyebrows and jerking her head towards the balcony. 

He furrows his brow in confusion, not understanding why the matron has decided to take him here, but she seems to want him to step outside, so he does. The terrace seems empty on his first assessment, so he turns around to Nenneke, ready to ask about her reasons, when he hears it. The sound of a lute.

He stills, listening to the cheerful music with disbelief and awe. He knows that song, has heard it being played to and for him countless times before. His feet carry him closer to the melody even as his mind blanks in shock, refusing to assimilate what he’s hearing. He doesn’t want to believe in something that seems to good to be true, in fear of having his heart ripped from his chest yet again when it proves to be so. Once he sees it though, he feels the muscle give out in his chest. 

He sits there, in a corner of the patio, obscured from the entrance. He has his lute in his lap and he gazes at the forest before him, the tops of the trees blending together and forming a green carpet that stretches out as far as the eye can see from this height. 

Geralt holds his breath as he listens to the bard play, not wanting to disturb the sight and somehow make it disappear. He barely believes what he sees, but there Jaskier is, alive and awake, strumming his lute like no time has passed by. The only visible evidence of this whole ordeal is how frail and thin he looks, and that sickly tang to his scent. There are two long wooden canes on the floor where he sits, with padded tops. He must be using crutches to move around, muscles weak from the months spent on bedrest with no activity. 

He finishes the tune he was playing and glances back at to the woods again, fingers ghosting over the strings. He can pinpoint the second Jaskier realizes he’s being watched. His brow furrows in confusion and he whips his head around, cornflower blue eyes landing on golden ones. 

Geralt feels the breath leave him as he finally finds himself at the receiving end of Jaskier’s gaze again, after all that time. His eyes are no longer dull, unseeing, but shining bright with intelligence and delight. 

“Geralt!” He hears the bard say, happiness loud in his voice. Geralt finds himself striding forward then, his feet no longer rooted to the ground, as if the music's end had broken the spell that had been keeping them there. 

Jaskier tries to stand as Geralt nears him, but his legs wobble under his weight and he tilts forward, grasping at the witcher for support. Geralt catches him before he can tumble and keeps him upright, heart doing somersaults in his chest as he realizes he’s holding Jaskier -- alive, awake and happy Jaskier -- in his arms again, and he never wants to let go. 

He pulls the younger man closer, wrapping his arms around his back like he can keep him there forever, protect him from all the things he’d failed to before, and buries his nose in the crook of his neck. He lets the smell of Jaskier -- blueberries and honeysuckle -- wash over him, calm his pain and distress, and loses track of time. He doesn’t know how long for, but Jaskier arms wrap around him as well, and he lets Geralt hold him closer. 

When he pulls back, expression soft and concerned, he brings his hands up to cup Geralt’s face. It’s only then he becomes aware of the wetness that stains his cheeks, and is shocked with the discovery that he’s crying. He hasn’t cried since he was a little boy going through the witcher trials, and to do so after so long feels… odd. But Jaskier simply smiles at him, a fond sad twist of his lips, and tugs his head lower. Geralt goes willingly, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s own and closing his eyes, marveling in the feel of having him so close and alive. He didn’t think he’d ever get the chance again. The feeling is heady. 

“It’s ok,” he whispers, breath mingling with Geralt’s. “I’m ok.”

Geralt feels a weight drop from his shoulders at the words, and then Jaskier lip finds his. It’s a tentative touch at first, but Geralt starts moving his mouth under Jaskier’s, returning the kiss -- because how could he not? -- and he can taste the bard’s relief and reassurance at the gesture.

The kiss stays soft though, tender and unhurried, like they have all the time in the world to learn each others gives and tells, and it doesn’t evolve much beyond the caress of lips -- they’re in a temple after all. Nenneke has left them alone for now, but Geralt has no doubt that she’s near and aware, the old coot has her tricks.

When they pull away, Jaskier rests their foreheads together again, looking up at him with such a look of adoration and unconditional trust that Geralt feels wholly undeserving. He is the reason Jaskier is in this condition. He was too slow, too stupid, too selfish--

“Hey. Stop,” Jaskier chides, voice gentle and quiet as his eyes search Geralt’s. A hand goes up to thumb at his brow, coaxing the tensed muscles back into a relaxed state. “I know what you’re thinking, and it wasn’t your fault.”

Geralt opens his mouth to protest but Jaskier halts his attempt by planting his other hand over his lips. 

“It wasn’t,” he stresses, giving him a pointed look with a determined expression that brooked no argument. “If it weren’t for you I’d be dead right now, Geralt. You saved me.”

“I hurt you,” he mumbles against Jaskier palm.

“You  _ saved  _ me.”

With that, he removes his hand from Geralt’s lips and leans forward to lay a gentle peck against them instead, nuzzling in Geralt’s hold.

“And I’m thankful,” he says, beaming up at him. “Now be a doll and carry me downstairs, will you? Those crutches are awfully uncomfortable. But don’t tell Nenneke I said that or she’ll keep me on bed arrest for another week.”

Geralt huffs out a teary laugh and heaves Jaskier up, turning him slightly so the younger man can settle more comfortably against his chest. Jaskier is much too light for comfort, but Geralt stores that information away for future concerns. He’s not going anywhere after all, he can start making sure Jaskier is eating right and not exerting himself tomorrow. For today, he just wants to hold him and be relieved in the fact that he can. 

“I won’t,” he breathes, brushing a kiss over the top of Jaskier’s hair. The bard makes a contented noise and curls up against him. 

With that, he turns around and heads back inside the temple. He also vows, with Jaskier warm and content in his arms, that he won’t ever let anything bad happen again to his bard. Even if he has to tear through the whole world to do it, he’ll keep him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Jaskier is in a vegetative-state; his body lives but his mind is essentially dead, save for the natural reflexes like breathing, eating, etc. Of course he doesn't stay that way for long, in the end he's up and kicking! Call it the miracle of fic writing.  
> There's also a part in the fic where Geralt thinks Jaskier is dead, when gets to his room and he's not in it, but turns out Jaskier is awake and well, strumming his lute!

**Author's Note:**

> So I started playing Witcher 3 and the quest “on death’s bed” inspired me to write this little thing, so you can probably guess where it's going from here :3


End file.
